


The Vines That Grow Between the Castle Stones (I Want To Know Their Names)

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Scar Worship, Soft Feral Boys, Tenderness, These Assholes Got Soft on Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22950847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: In which Geralt learns more about letting himself be taken care of, just a little.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 91
Kudos: 1249
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	The Vines That Grow Between the Castle Stones (I Want To Know Their Names)

**Author's Note:**

> This lovely soft prompt was taken from the Witcher kinkmeme: "Geralt is used to being asked for the stories behind his scars. Given Jaskier’s usual enthusiasm for tales of his monster hunting exploits, he anticipates the same. What he’s not prepared for is for Jaskier to simply want to touch and kiss each one, with no questions beyond which scars still bother him."

For most of his life on the Path, after a hunt, all Geralt wanted to do was a) get paid, b) take a bath, c) fuck someone, and d) sleep. Preferably in that order. He didn’t always get the third, or even the second as much as he’d like, but those were the four things he wanted.

He hadn’t realized until Jaskier that he’d been asking for the bare minimum.

Now, after a hunt, he a) got paid and then b) went up to his room, where Jaskier would be waiting to patiently wash his hair, gently working out all the tangles, followed by c) Jaskier bandaging any wounds, rubbing salve into his bruises, and brushing his hair, and then d) getting a very thorough massage from Jaskier, those lute-calloused, dexterous fingers slowly kneading away all the knots that were worked into him from battle, and finally e) sex and f) sleep.

D and E sometimes switched places, depending on how delectable Jaskier was smelling and how much Geralt wanted him.

Tonight was much of the same. He got paid by the alderman, then went back to the inn. He’d been hunting all night while Jaskier played and it was now early enough in the afternoon that the tavern was empty, not many customers, so Jaskier was up in his room, strumming on his lute and working out some particular wording when Geralt got in.

Jaskier immediately got a bath sent up while he helped Geralt out of his armor and sewed up the new gash in Geralt’s arm (a shallow one, but it had bled a lot), singing the entire time working out his new song, until Geralt had the damn tune stuck in his head by the time he was finished bathing.

“Now you just lie down there,” Jaskier said, fluttering around the room like a nesting bird. “I got a new scent, I know your Witchery nose is oh so sensitive but it’s sandalwood and I tried it myself, it’s nice and subtle, and besides they were all out of chamomile.”

Geralt rolled his eyes but laid down on the bed. This was their arrangement, one of the endless dances they did in their relationship. Jaskier listened to him when it came to hunting and being on the road and generally any situation where their lives were in danger. But Jaskier would happily manhandle him when it came to things like personal hygiene, clothing, and human interaction. Geralt always insisted he’d gotten along fine before he had Jaskier, and he had. He’d been fine.

What he never said out loud was that now he was much better than fine.

Jaskier swung a leg up, straddling Geralt and settling on Geralt’s lower back. Geralt grunted, but really, Jaskier’s weight was nothing. If anything it was soothing.

Anyone else tried to do this, put him in such a vulnerable position, Geralt would’ve had his hand around their throat and their back to the wall. But this was Jaskier, and just as he took care of his bard, his bard took care of him.

He could smell the bottle being opened and the sandalwood-scented oil poured into Jaskier’s palm. A moment later, Jaskier’s hands were on him, the bard’s palms digging wonderfully into the knots on either side of Geralt’s spine.

“Always so tense,” Jaskier muttered, making _tssk_ noises under his breath.

It had taken weeks for Geralt to get used to this and stop tensing up even more when Jaskier started his work, but now he just relaxed into it and let his mind drift. Jaskier hummed, and sometimes sang quietly, but never loudly, not like usual, and he didn’t carry on a one-sided conversation like in all other situations. It was peaceful.

Jaskier slowly, patiently worked out the various knots, until Geralt felt like he was puddle, and then—then he felt Jaskier’s fingertips ghosting over the back of his shoulder blade.

It was where one of the striga’s claws had torn into him during that long, seemingly endless night of battle. Geralt honestly couldn’t remember a more exhausting fight. There’d been times when he’d wondered if he would even survive it.

After a moment, Jaskier’s fingers were followed by his lips, soft kisses pressed like flower petals up the length of the jagged, curving scar.

A good half of the people he’d bedded asked about his scars. There was usually this tone of awe about them, excitement, wanting to hear all the gory details about the battle. It had been entertainment for them, another thing to brag about when they told others of how they’d bedded a Witcher. It had always made him feel more like a freak.

Jaskier had never asked. Geralt had assumed it was because Jaskier had been there when so many of his scars had been earned, with new scars often replacing or covering older ones. But Jaskier hadn’t been there for the striga. He knew the story. Everyone did. He’d turned it into a song, at King Foltest’s request—for all the man’s faults (and Geralt considered bedding one’s sister a fairly grievous one, even if it was consensual), he adored his daughter fiercely and wanted the deeds of the Witcher who’d been her salvation known.

But even though Jaskier sang the song, he hadn’t been _there._ He didn’t know how Geralt had gotten that scar.

And yet, he still didn’t ask.

The oil was soaked into Geralt’s skin, and Jaskier had been right, the sandalwood was a pleasant smell, not overwhelming at all, and his muscles were all relaxed. The massage was clearly over. But Jaskier didn’t move from Geralt’s back.

Instead, the bard moved his lips onto another scar, this one from the selkiemore that had swallowed Geralt, a row of tiny teeth marks that ran down the length of his spine. Jaskier pressed a soft kiss to each one.

Something warm and soft and dangerous unspooled in Geralt’s chest. “What are you doing?”

“I—I’m not sure,” Jaskier replied, a soft, bewildered laugh in his voice. “I only—I want to.”

“...did you want me to tell you about them?”

“No, it’s not that. I mean. If you want to, I’d be happy to hear the stories.” Jaskier’s nose drew slowly up the back of Geralt’s neck, where a barely-discernible scar from a garrote lay. Jaskier kissed that, too. “It’s just that—your body, you, Geralt, do you not know—actually why am I asking, of course you don’t know, you thick-headed lummox—”

Geralt managed to roll over without disturbing Jaskier too much, grabbing onto the bard’s hips to keep him steady and astride Geralt’s hips, gazing up at him.

Jaskier’s blue eyes blinked back at him, soft and deep like cornflowers. “You’re beautiful, that’s all—no, don't look at me like that, Geralt, I mean it, I'm allowed to call it like I see it. You are beautiful. And I’m including your scars in that.”

Geralt blinked at him. “...why?”

His scars might be a curiosity, but they were far from pretty. Ask anyone. Fuck’s sake, ask the many sorcerers and sorceresses who had their own scars magicked away in their graduation ritual.

“Because they’re proof that you made it,” Jaskier replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “They’re proof you survived.”

He bent down, nosing at the knife scar right by Geralt’s collarbone, lapping delicately at it with his tongue like a cat with cream. “Sometimes I see them and I—I won’t lie, Geralt, it makes me terribly sad, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“It’s a figure of speech, you addled cow.”

“You say the sweetest things, Jas.”

Jaskier kissed one of the many claw marks that wrapped around his shoulders and biceps. Griffons and other monsters liked to grab him there to try and drag him off, or rip away an arm, or get leverage. Or it was just from when he’d raised up his arms to try and protect his head from an attack. Easier to sew up a gouge in his shoulder than replace an eye. His shoulders and upper arms were the worst scarred by far.

But Jaskier took his time, kissing every single one. His voice, when he spoke, was barely audible even to a Witcher’s ears. “It’s just that it’s a reminder of… how close I came to…” He trailed off.

For all of his ways with words, Jaskier rarely said the most straightforward things. When they finally kissed for the first time, Jaskier had curled his hand around Geralt’s jaw, his fingers hooked just behind Geralt’s ear, and whispered, “You know, don’t you? You know?” And Geralt had known, had understood what Jaskier wasn’t saying— _you know, don’t you, how long I pined, how long I’ve loved, you know how long I’ve loved only you_ —and so he’d nodded and kissed Jaskier in answer.

And he understood, now, what Jaskier wasn’t saying this time. _It’s a reminder, how close I came to losing you. Time and again._

The Path was full of danger. He would keep going until he grew too slow, and a monster cut him down, just like the striga cut down the unfortunate Witcher who had come before him (he’d taken the man’s medallion back to his school, had told them of their clan member’s fate). It was inevitable. But to Jaskier, it wasn’t. To Jaskier, nothing about the Path was inevitable.

Geralt swallowed, his throat tight. “So you don’t want to hear how I got them?” he asked, struggling to add some levity to the situation. They weren’t like this, they didn’t do this. Not with their words, anyway. He knew how Jaskier felt, and Jaskier knew how Geralt felt. They were tender to each other, in their own ways. But this was… it was making that hard thing inside of him get hot and melt and spread through him faster than Geralt could keep a handle on it, and it scared him. It made him feel… human.

“Maybe another time,” Jaskier replied. He kissed the semicircular one around Geralt’s side, a bite mark, and then moved up and to the left to catch the three that slid diagonally down Geralt’s right pectoral. “If you want to share.”

If he wanted to share with anyone, it would be Jaskier.

“Do any of them bother you?” Jaskier asked. His fingers drifted down to stroke Geralt’s knee. “Like… get stiff in the cold? Anything I should take care of?”

As much as he complained and sassed the bard, Geralt knew—like he knew the set of the stars—that he didn’t deserve him.

“No.” The mutations took care of that.

Jaskier nodded, his eyes soft enough to fall into, and returned to his exploration, his kisses kind, without even a hint of teeth.

Geralt wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch, but eventually he reached out, threading his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier worried at a scar on his hip, and made a pleased noise as Geralt tightened his hold.

He stroked through Jaskier’s hair, feeling the hot thing continue to melt inside of him. “You don’t have to—”

“Since when have I ever done anything because I felt I had to?” Jaskier asked. He turned, mouthing at Geralt’s cock.

Of course he was half-hard. He had Jaskier squirming all over him in nothing but tight pants and an undone chemise, kissing all over his body, who wouldn’t be swelling in response? But he hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t considered that anything would be done about it.

Jaskier kissed the scars along Geralt’s thighs, his hands rubbing slow, steady circles all the while. Jaskier didn’t have many scars. A few small ones, from falls as a child, or rough treatment from a cuckolded spouse or an irate audience member. The soles of his feet and the pads of his fingers were the only roughened things about him. He was soft in the middle, lean in his limbs, and his cheeks still impossibly retained the slight heft of childhood.

Geralt wouldn’t have him any other way. He never wanted Jaskier to have the sort of body that Geralt did, the sort of body that told a story of hard use. He never wanted to see lines like his marking Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier made his way down to the back of Geralt’s knee, where fire had licked up Geralt’s leg once during a battle. Geralt knew there were some scars on his feet, but Jaskier at last began to make his way back up, returning his attention to Geralt’s cock.

It didn’t take much to get him completely hard, just Jaskier’s soft mouth around him, musing, tasting, not even teasing so much as exploring.

“Jas, really—”

“Hush.” Jaskier massaged his balls with one hand, glaring up at Geralt as though Geralt had suggested Jaskier stop playing the lute and take up the psaltery. “Let yourself be taken care of, Geralt.”

He was melting all over inside, warm and helpless. No one had taken _care_ of him, not since his mother had left him, and certainly no one had worshipped him like this, pressed kisses to the roadmap of his body, his life, like he was something precious. He didn’t know what to do with it.

Jaskier huffed. “Melitele save me from idiot Witchers,” he muttered, and then he slid his mouth over Geralt’s cock, taking him in, and Geralt moved his hand from Jaskier’s hair to his cheek, feeling the press of his cock up against the inside, the shape of it. Jaskier’s eyes were smiling.

Then those warm eyes slid closed, and Jaskier moved up and down, practiced but unhurried, his tongue working underneath the foreskin and against the slit at the head, lapping up the precome, fluttering, twisting, never still even when he couldn’t technically use it to speak. And Geralt… Geralt closed his eyes and let himself have it. Let himself be cared for, if only for ten minutes in this backwater tavern in the middle of a nowhere town.

His orgasm built brick by brick, like a house, steady and strong with him in the middle until he had no choice but to be surrounded by it, to let it overtake him. He came with a grunt, tugging on Jaskier’s hair, and Jaskier did his best to swallow it all (he never succeeded, but he did try).

Jaskier tasted like him when Geralt pulled him up for a kiss. He could feel the bard hard against his hip, but when he tried to flip them over, or slide down to reciprocate, Jaskier planted himself hard and wouldn’t go.

Geralt could’ve really made Jaskier move if he’d wanted to, but he only manhandled Jaskier when he needed to get the bard out of danger or when Jaskier was enjoying some roughhousing during sex, and this was neither of those times. “Stubborn fool.”

“Takes one to know one,” Jaskier replied, but there was no heat in his tone—only fondness. He purred as Geralt slid his hand between them and drew the bard’s cock out. It jumped in his palm, already leaking, and Jaskier nuzzled into him happily.

Ah. Geralt wrapped his other arm around Jaskier’s back, understanding. Jaskier wanted closeness. He wanted to be held. Geralt could work with that.

Jaskier didn’t stop kissing him, whether it was on one of the tiny scars on his neck and jaw, or the small cut by his left eye, or the bump from where his nose had been broken that one time, or full on the mouth, where there were no scars except the quickly-healing bite marks that Jaskier gave him. It didn’t take long for the bard to come, groaning long and loud against Geralt’s jaw, the sound vibrating through both of them. Jaskier slumped against him, burying his face in Geralt’s neck, which was usually Geralt’s thing. Not that he minded a reversal. He never minded holding Jaskier.

“I do want to know,” Jaskier admitted, his voice soft, a lullaby. Geralt felt him reach out and gently trace around the cut that Geralt had gotten today, on his inner forearm just below the elbow. “The stories, I mean. But only if you want to. Because… because I want to know you.”

Of course the bard had figured it out. Of course he’d realized how most people saw the scars, just like he’d figured out everything else about Geralt, and about how the world saw the White Wolf. Jaskier got where he wanted by bombarding people with questions, to be sure, but he also saw and understood a lot more than people thought. His eyes were just as quick as his tongue.

If there was anyone he wanted to know him—if there was anyone who deserved to know him, with whom he felt safe, knowing—it was Jaskier.

The warm, soft thing was all the way through him now. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be relaxed. Perhaps it was vulnerability.

Perhaps it was trust.

Geralt took Jaskier’s hand and guided it down, back to his thigh, to the ugliest of the scars that lay there, the bite mark that had been a mess of flesh and infection. “I got this right before I found Ciri.”

He both heard and felt Jaskier’s breath catch, and rubbed his thumb back and forth along the back of Jaskier’s hand even as Jaskier made the same movement against the scar. “You must have been so tired,” Jaskier observed, and Geralt knew that he meant more than just in body.

It was true. He had been alone, and so, so tired.

He kept his hand on top of Jaskier’s, and told him the story.


End file.
